


Hothouse

by MelayneSeahawk



Series: Good Omens Kink Meme [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Looks Like Brother Francis, Book Elements, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has Breasts, Even During the Sex, F/M, Feelings, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), Good Omens Kink Meme, M/M, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Sex at work, Show Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:33:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22919266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelayneSeahawk/pseuds/MelayneSeahawk
Summary: Crowley’s snuck up on him, so when Aziraphale turns at the sound of the pram’s wheels on the gravel path, Crowley is treated to an unrestricted view of his expression.It’s shocked. And hungry.Just for a moment. Just until he can control his face and step forward to greet ‘her’ politely, with that awful accent and even worse teeth. There and gone so fast, a human might have missed it.But Crowley’s not human. Very interesting, didn’t know you had it in you, angel, he thinks, and starts plotting trouble.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Ashtoreth/Brother Francis (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Kink Meme [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535939
Comments: 8
Kudos: 208
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Hot Omens





	Hothouse

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [Good Omens Kink Meme](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/) on dreamwidth, prompt: [Crowley notices that “Brother Francis” gets flustered around “Nanny Ashtoreth“ and decides to press the advantage](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=111720#cmt111720)
> 
> unbetaed, unBrit-picked
> 
> porn and feeeeeelings

Crowley dresses carefully for his interview with the Dowlings, casting an exacting eye over every detail of his outfit and the changes to his corporation. From the bit of veil on his hat to the bottoms of his sensible shoes, every element of the outfit is precisely selected to present a very specific image. An image of a capable, no-nonsense woman, who Mrs. Dowling will trust and Mr. Dowling won’t lust after too badly, and Warlock will listen to and obey. He pets one hand over the buttons and black tweed over his belly and smiles thinly.

He’s pleased by Mrs. Dowling’s reaction, disappointed but not entirely surprised by the way Mr. Dowling eyes him, and the wee bairn is too young to have an opinion just yet. But what he wasn’t expecting is Aziraphale’s reaction to seeing him all kitted up as ‘Nanny’.

They meet for the first time in their disguises out in the garden, ‘Brother Francis’ attempting to reason with an unruly hydrangea and ‘Nanny Ashtoreth’ pushing Warlock’s pram. Aziraphale’s disguise is as bad as Crowley had feared, though there’s something endearing about it, too. Crowley’s snuck up on him, so when Aziraphale turns at the sound of the pram’s wheels on the gravel path, Crowley is treated to an unrestricted view of his expression.

It’s shocked. And  _ hungry _ .

Just for a moment. Just until he can control his face and step forward to greet ‘her’ politely, with that awful accent and even worse teeth. There and gone so fast, a human might have missed it.

But Crowley’s not human.  _ Very interesting, didn’t know you had it in you, angel _ , he thinks, and starts plotting trouble.

***

Nanny Ashtoreth takes Warlock out in his pram for a walk in the garden every day it’s not pouring rain, and always manages to find Brother Francis to exchange pleasantries with. She flirts a little, smiling wickedly when she makes the gardener blush scarlet, which despite his ruddy complexion is apparently easy to do.

It takes a few weeks, but soon enough Francis takes to regularly offering her a blossom for her hair, a shy smile on his face, and there are always fresh cut flowers in the sitting room of her little suite near Warlock’s nursery.

(Crowley takes this as a sign to keep up the hard work.)

***

One day, she corners Francis in the greenhouse, and decides to really push her luck. Francis looks up when she closes the door behind her. “Ah, Ms Ashtoreth, young Warlock’s down for a nap, I see?”

“Aye, he is,” she says. She stalks across the glass room and into Francis’s personal space, hidden from anyone who might pass the structure by its verdant inhabitants. “I’ve some free time, so I thought I might come and see you.”

“Me?” Francis squeaks, taking a half-step back, looking for all the world like a mouse caught in the gaze of a hungry snake. She smirks slightly at the metaphor.

“I’d like to think we’re friends,” she says, and Francis nods hesitantly. “You’re truly my only friend in this house,” she adds, and despite himself Francis lays a comforting hand on her arm. “I thought you might join me for a little break.” Francis swallows audibly, clearly taking her meaning without her needing to be very direct about it.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asks softly, for a moment all his put-upon accent and demeanor disappearing.

“Roll with it, angel,” Crowley answers, dropping the accent as well. “Unless you don’t want to, of course.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, and Francis is back, looking hopefully at her. She takes another step forward and rests gentle hands on his chest, the coarse fabric of his smock under her palms. “You really want to...spend time with me?” he asks, a hint of the ever-cautious Aziraphale peeking through again.

“Yes,  _ m’aingeal _ ,” she says, and leans down to meet Francis halfway as he turns his face up to kiss her.

***

The kiss is sweet and chaste, but not as hesitant as Crowley would have expected. He’d always expected, when he actually let himself think about this at all, that Aziraphale would kiss cautiously. Maybe he would never have done this before at all, and Crowley would get to teach him. But this is better, somehow. Crowley doesn’t have a huge wealth of experience to pull from, but he’s been learning new things with Aziraphale at his side for millennia, so it feels right to approach sex the same way.

Francis’s arms slide around around her waist, and she brings her hands up to cup his cheeks, fingers combing through his sideburns. It’s good not having to breathe, but eventually Francis pulls back, face redder than ever, and sighs, “Oh, Cr-Nanny.”

“I think you’d better call me Lilith, don’t you?” she says with a small chuckle, and Francis smiles ruefully.

“Should we take this back to my cottage, perhaps?” he asks, but she shakes her head.

“Here,” she insists, reaching down to unbutton her jacket, not teasing precisely but going a little slower than she otherwise might. Francis is mesmerized, and reaches up to push the jacket from her shoulders when she’s done. His hands are warm at her waist through the thin fabric of her blouse, and even in the heat of the greenhouse she shivers happily, leaning down to kiss him again.

Francis opens his mouth to her questing tongue and slides his hands up to cup her breasts, easily finding her nipples through blouse and lacy bra. Lilith gasps against his lips and hurries to untie the bow at her throat, pleased when his thick, nimble fingers come up to unbutton her blouse. Francis ends the kiss to bury his face in her cleavage, whiskers tickling her skin but lips soft despite those ridiculous teeth, and Lilith sighs, knocking the hat from his head and burying her fingers in his curly hair.

Crowley’s wanted to do that from the Beginning.

Lilith moans as his lips find her nipple, and she reverses their positions so her back is pressed against the wooden door to the toolroom, giving her leverage to press up into his mouth and hands. Her skirt is an open A-line silhouette today -- she’s nothing if not prepared, even if it was Aziraphale who took credit for the Scouts -- so it’s easy to wrap a leg around Francis’s hip and pull him closer.

Francis grunts when the move brings them flush against each other, and Lilith smiles thinly. He gently frees her left breast from its lace prison and wraps his tongue around her nipple, and she sighs and tips her head back against the door, uncaring whether this musses her hair. Even the slightest scrape of his teeth feels wonderful, and she curls her hips against his, looking for friction to ease the ache between her legs.

He breathes her name against her skin, and she pulls him up for another kiss, this one deep and hungry. Francis pushes one hand up under her skirt to touch the skin of her thigh and she groans into his mouth, tightening her fingers in his hair. He slides his hand higher in retaliation, skating along her suspender strap and tracing delicately over the edge of her knickers.

“You’re a terrible tease, aren’t you?” Lilith asks, panting a little, and Francis just gives her an angelic smile. She grumbles and reaches for his waist, pushing up his smock to undo his belt and the fastenings to his trousers.

Francis’s fingers tighten on her leg and waist, but he doesn’t stop her, so she keeps going, reaching into his pants to free his already-hard cock. She licks her lips when she sees what she’s working with (and if her tongue is a little snakey, only Francis will see), and tightens her leg around his hip to pull him even closer.

“Let me see your eyes, dearie,” Francis says, and for a moment she hesitates, wondering if that’s an intimacy too far. His face starts to fall and Lilith relents, taking off her sunglasses and tossing them into her discarded jacket. Without the dark lenses between them, his eyes are startlingly blue and she looks away. He brings his hand to her chin and turns her face to his, smiling reassuringly. “It’s alright, lovely girl.”

Lilith knows she’s blushing brightly, so she snorts in response. Enough of this mush, time for the  _ sex _ . She shoves the other side of her skirt up to the waist, pushes her knickers to the side, and takes Francis’s cock in hand to guide it to her opening.

He moans when she touches him, hips stuttering against her hand. “Condom?” he asks breathlessly.

“Nah,” she says, very Crowley for a moment.

“If you’re sure,” he says, voice going up an octave on the last word as just the head of him breaches her. She smirks, shifting a hand to his hip to urge him on.

***

He moves inside her slowly, teasingly, circling his hips to grind against her clit and her G-spot, and her fingers dig deep into the surprising muscle in his shoulders, her head thrown back as she pants and moans. She’s close, but before she can do anything about it, his hand is on her clit, rubbing sweetly, the pressure of his hips just adding to the delicious grind. She moans his name and comes, his warm arms encircling her as she shakes apart. He continues to touch her softly as she comes down from it, until the sensation is too much and she pushes his hand away.

“C’mon,  _ m’aingeal _ , really give it to me,” she says when he seems ready to pull away. He shakes his head at her boldness but really fucks up into her, and she smirks, wrapping her other leg around him. She knows he can easily take the weight.

He moves faster now, really pounding up into her as she whispers filthy things in his ear in her put-on Scottish brogue. He’s breathing hard against her neck, pausing occasionally to kiss her, lips wet and gorgeous. She digs the heels of her sensible shoes into his ample rear, driving him on, pleased when he groans her name.

Soon enough, his hips still and he stiffens, and she can feel him come inside her, warm and lush. She’s close again, so she brings her fingers down to her clit, occasionally touching the place where they’re still joined, taking only moments to bring herself to a second climax. She relaxes back against the door, a sated smile on her face, and he rests his head on her chest.

They stay that way until he softens and slides out. She moves to lower her legs but he stops her, retrieving a surprisingly-spotless handkerchief from somewhere on his person and using it to clean her up a little. The sweetness of the gesture and the tender smile on his face are too much, so she summons her glasses back to her face and graces him with a smirk she’s sure he can see right through.

He’s lowering her legs to the ground and starting to button her blouse when the baby monitor in her jacket pocket lets out a whine. “Time’s up, I suppose,” she says, a little regretful, and clicks her fingers to straighten her outfit. She uses her hands to tuck Francis back into his baggy trousers and do up his belt, and she kisses him softly before another click fixes her makeup and hair to their austere perfection from before. She checks her reflection in the greenhouse glass, willing away the kiss-stung puffiness of her lips and a slight hickey that appears too far above her collar.

She leaves the slight soreness between her legs completely alone.

***

Crowley is not sure if Aziraphale will bring it up the next time they meet to check in, this time in the courtyard of the Victoria and Albert Museum. Aziraphale has a slice of Victoria sponge and a cup of tea in front of him, an espresso already in place for Crowley when he slithers into the seat. Aziraphale’s focus stays on his cake, so Crowley sips at his coffee in silence.

“I’m not sure what you were playing at the other day, dear boy,” Aziraphale says, tone deceptively light. “But I think we should talk about it.”

“When do we ever talk about things?” Crowley points out, but Aziraphale is undeterred. He turns a stern expression on Crowley, who resists the urge to sink down in his chair. “I thought you wanted it, is all. Was I wrong?”

“Did  _ you _ want it?” the angel asks, and Crowley gives him a wicked grin.

“I never do things I don’t want.”

“We both know that’s a grave untruth,” Aziraphale says, putting down his fork. “Please be serious for a moment, my dear. Did you want what happened the other day, or were you Tempting me?”

Crowley’s face falls, suddenly realizing how serious this is for Aziraphale. “No, angel, I wasn’t Tempting. I would never do that to you.”

“You would all the time,” Aziraphale says, but his posture softens and he picks up his fork.

“Not when it mattered, not about something like this,” Crowley says seriously, and Aziraphale looks up in an attempt to meet his eyes. Crowley is both sad and grateful that they’re in public and he has an excuse to hide behind his glasses. “I swear it.”

Aziraphale drops his eyes again, poking gently at his cake. They sit in somewhat heavy silence for a time, but Crowley knows Aziraphale isn’t done, and that if he interrupts, they may never finish this terribly awkward conversation. Which has its appeal, certainly, but now that they’ve started, he wants to finish. So he waits, giving Aziraphale the time he needs. “Would you be interested in doing it again?”

Crowley feels his mouth drop open in shock, then hurriedly tries to turn the expression into a sly smile instead. “As Nanny and Gardener? Or…”

“Either,” Aziraphale says quickly. “Both.” He’s blushing, cheeks as pink as the rose hip jam inside his sponge. “I haven’t a strong preference, so long as it’s you.”

Crowley’s instinct is to tease him, but this is deadly serious. He’s not sure he’s ever been this serious in his very long life. “Alright, angel, whatever you like,” he says, aiming for lightness and probably missing by a mile.

Aziraphale frowns slightly. “I’m not sure you understand, my dear. What we did the other day was...very nice,” he says, blushing even brighter, if possible, and Crowley resists the instinct to leer. “But that’s not...it’s not the only thing that’s changed between us, is it?”

Crowley fiddles with his espresso cup, but he knows what Aziraphale’s talking about. They’ve been spending more time together since reconciling in 1941, but since coming to work for the Dowlings, they see each other every day. They often eat lunch together, either with Warlock on the grounds or in the staff kitchen. Even when they’re not working, they have little clandestine meetings like this, ostensibly to compare notes, but honestly what is there to say about an infant who’s barely developed object permanence?

And while Crowley has long been in the habit of giving Aziraphale gifts, the angel has started returning the favor: not just flowers for his sitting room or his hair, but saving a serving of Crowley’s favorite foods at dinner when he misses it for the baby, a bottle of perfume he’d found in a shop, a brooch that “just never suited me, my dear”.

Crowley recognizes his own tricks.

“No, I guess it’s not,” he says quietly.

Aziraphale glances around--and up--furtively, then reaches out and takes Crowley’s hand in his own, the shock of it causing Crowley to freeze. “The world may end a decade from now, dear boy,” he says softly. “I may have been reluctant in the past, but I am in earnest now.”

“Angel, what are you saying?” Crowley asks just as softly, hand spasming and gripping Aziraphale’s thick fingers tightly.

Aziraphale’s lips tip up into a lopsided smile. “I’m saying that I’m in love with you, dear boy,” he says, almost laughing now. “I think I have been for a very long time, though I didn’t realize it until recently.”

“Recently?” Crowley says dully, feeling a little like he’s having an out of body experience.

“Oh, just since you saved me and the prophecy books from those unsavory characters during the war.”

Crowley shakes his head, snapping out of his shock a little. Only the angel would think  _ eighty years ago _ was ‘recently’. “You’re ridiculous, angel, you know that?” he says. Aziraphale’s face starts to fall, expression turning uncertain, and Crowley hurries to add, “I love you, too, you silly thing. Have since...well, since the Garden, probably.”

“Truly?” Aziraphale asks, and he gets a starry-eyed expression that he usually only aims at especially good crepes.

“You gave away your sword?” Crowley says with a shrug, the movement reminding him that they are, in fact, still holding hands, in public, in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. “Er.”

“You did seem to have a strong reaction to that,” Aziraphale says, beaming. “I’m sure we have more to discuss, dearest, but perhaps we should take this somewhere less public?”   
  
Crowley feels his ears turn red at the endearment, but tries not to let his pleased embarrassment show on his face;  _ one _ of them has to keep their cool. “Ready to go? You’re not done with your cake.”

Aziraphale looks down at the crumbled remains of his sponge and smiles in a way that makes the courtyard feel suddenly overwarm. “I think I have more important things than cake to deal with right now,” he says, standing and using their still-linked hands to tug Crowley to his feet. “The bookshop?”

“Do you even have a bed, angel?”

Aziraphale throws him a positively saucy look and insistently tugs him toward the exit. “I suppose you’ll just have to find out, won’t you?”

**Author's Note:**

> [reblog link](https://melayneseahawk.tumblr.com/post/611090284869189632/hothouse-melayneseahawk-good-omens-neil)
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://melayneseahawk.tumblr.com/)!


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